Untouched
by truemizzie
Summary: Sherlock returns, with one last enemy to conquer.  Now, if only he could allow himself to be helped - or at least touched.  Reunion-fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: **Welcome to my new story! I've written a bunch of one-shots about Sherlock's return, but this on-going one has been floating around my mind for ages...and here it is! Hope you like it.

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><p><strong>Untouched<strong>

Mycroft sat alone by the fireside, mindlessly flipping through the next day's newspaper. There was nothing special about that night. The news was dull, as it often was, and he had done a good enough job that week to safely say the world's affairs were well in order. The tea next to his cozy seat had gotten cold since he sat down, his hands too busy with the biscuits next to him to bother taking a sip. Realizing that a warm cuppa would be the perfect thing to wash them down, he stood, picked up his teacup and started for the kitchen. It was Sunday, so the maid had the night off, and Mycroft was more than happy to make the journey for himself. Sometimes he wondered why he had hired a maid in the first place, if her only real task was bringing him treats.

Yes, it was a dull night. Sherlock would have complained, Mycroft thought, at the lack of adventurous criminals out in the world. At least it wasn't raining. How Sherlock had hated the rain...

Mycroft was just reaching for the kettle when the knock came. Three knocks. He had a spark of familiarity, but pushed it to the back of his mind. Probably just some desperate children selling cookies for whatever religious group they were partaking in. Then again, it was rude to let them knock twice, when it was so obvious that he was home.

Mycroft's fingers finished their journey to the kettle, turned it on, and he made his way to the front door. He looked through the peep hole. It was a man. His head was bent, and he had his hood up. Hooligans. Mycroft had the pressure urge to call Lestrade, as he often did when fowl sorts came to the door. Of course, whoever this was, he definitely wasn't carrying a gun, that much was clear from his gait. So, Mycroft turned his door handle and greeted the youth.

"If you're looking for money-" he started, and then his lips froze as the stranger lifted his gaze.

"You have exactly five seconds to decide whether or not you've gone mad," Sherlock said callously. His face was thin, his cheekbones leaving the rest of it looking dangerously hollow. He had shaved his head recently, but the hair had started growing back. Perhaps for a month? Mycroft looked down at his legs. Sherlock kept his feet apart, with one slightly in front of the other, as though he was having trouble remaining upright. His clothes were old, worn, but his shoes...yes, he had taken care of his shoes, Mycroft could tell, but they were still ragged. He'd spent too much time running in them, perhaps? As Mycroft pondered Sherlock's runners, the younger brother started to tap his foot impatiently.

"Of course," Mycroft decided, moving to the side and raising an arm to invite Sherlock inside. Sherlock stepped through the threshold as swiftly as he did warily, stopping a few feet away from Mycroft and folding his arms pitifully. He nodded his thanks. "Is there anything I can get you?" Mycroft asked cordially, as if this was just a regular house guest. Sherlock shook his head wordlessly. "Come," Mycroft ordered him gently, leading the way to the living room. "Sit."

Sherlock eyed the couch Mycroft had indicated before complying. Mycroft left him there as he ventured to the laundry room. The shock of his brother's return had worn off quickly. Not that Mycroft had been expecting it...to him, Sherlock had absolutely died three years earlier. He'd left behind only legends of his brilliance, and a few select friends that had since moved on. Yet there he was in Mycroft's sitting room, dressed in rags. Running. Who was he running from? Mycroft opened the central drawer of a corner shelf and pulled out a few select items of clothing. He brought them back to the living room and placed them folded on the couch next to Sherlock before reseating himself where he'd been all night, now facing his brother.

Sherlock placed a hand on the clean clothes, stroked them, and then returned the hand to his lap. He folded his fingers together securely. "Thank you," he said, "But I've no need for pyjamas."

"Well, you're more than welcome to sleep in what you're wearing, but I thought perhaps they'd be a little more comfortable."

"I won't be staying the night."

Mycroft sighed. It was just like Sherlock: to refuse his assistance. "And where will you be going, then?" Sherlock shrugged, garnering another sigh from Mycroft, who stood. "Let me get you some food."

"That won't be necessary."

"When was the last time you ate?" Mycroft didn't need to ask. It was obvious looking at Sherlock that he'd gone hungry for the past day and a half, but placing any food in front of him would only beget wastefulness. "Tea?" Mycroft offered instead. He wasn't met with refusal, so he made his way back to the kitchen. The kettle was still hot enough for two cups of tea, which Mycroft made and brought back out to share with his brother. After placing his own saucer down on the coffee table, he held the other out to Sherlock. Sherlock unclasped his hands and took the tea in both of them. Hot liquid spilled over the sides of the teacup as Sherlock brought the saucer to his lap. He cleared his throat uncomfortably as some tea splashed onto his knee. Mycroft tried not to draw attention to his staring as he took a seat.

Sherlock moved his tea from his lap to the table, and carefully took hold of the cup in both of his hands, bringing it to his mouth. He blew on it for a few minutes before drowning the cup in one go.

"More?" Mycroft offered.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you." How polite he'd become.

But Mycroft wasn't in the mood for triviality. "There's something you need."

Finally, a nod. "I require a favour...an item I believe to be in your possession."

"Something in particular?"

"My old mobile."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "It is of use to you?"

"There's a list on it, a list of Moriarty's peers, and some clients. I'd been working on it for some time. I thought I'd committed it to memory, but..." Sherlock didn't finish his sentence. His right hand had ventured to his left forearm. He started pushing his sleeve upward, scratching the skin underneath mindlessly. Mycroft watched the motion with pursed lips. It didn't take Sherlock long to notice. "You are in no position to judge me, brother," he said, tugging his sleeve back over his wrist.

"I wasn't, I assure you." Mycroft took in some more tea before continuing. "I have your mobile upstairs. You could tell me why it is of necessity to you?"

"No, I could not."

"Then perhaps I could offer you more assistance in carrying out whatever task you've been embarking on these past years?"

"No, you could not."

"Sherlock," Mycroft droned, the way he had back when Sherlock was – oh yes, right. He was alive now. "How many have you already incapacitated?"

"How many what?"

"Of Moriarty's network. I expect that's what's revealed on the list."

"You searched my phone?"

"Naturally."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "There are a few left, I believe, but only one of much concern to me. The others should help lead me to him."

"So, that's why you've come home. To pick up your mobile and run away again." It wasn't a question. "Any particular reason why you left in the first place?"

Sherlock frowned. "It was necessary, in order to protect certain subjects, that I be believed...how shall I put this?"

"You shan't. It still grieves me to hear the word."

"Well then, take comfort in the fact that it is no longer applicable."

"I am." Mycroft allowed himself a small smile of solidarity. Sherlock re-clasped his hands carefully, trying to subdue their shivering. "Well, since you've been gone so long, I expect you'll be wanting to hear all about what you've missed. We'll start with John, shall we? Oh yes, he has done quite well for himsel-"

"-I'd prefer to remain ignorant, if it's all the same to you, Mycroft," Sherlock requested.

"But aren't you curious? After all, you don't want to show up at his doorstep totally unaware of his new-"

"It is really not necessary."

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Sherlock-" It felt so wonderful to be saying that name again, "-there are things you really must know."

"No, there aren't. I don't intend to take part in any more reunions. It is pertinent that I remain...focused."

Mycroft was surprised. "You'll be continuing alone?"

"It is the best way."

"If you won't accept my help, I must insist that you at least-"

"-He is to have no part in this, do you understand?" Suddenly, Sherlock was sturdy, and Mycroft knew that prodding would have little effect on his decision.

"Fine," he agreed, reluctantly. "And no one is to know, I presume?"

"Not a soul." Sherlock looked low, as though he regretted his previous snapping. "If you could retrieve the mobile now?"

"In a hurry, are we?"

"You could say that."

Mycroft sighed, well-aware that Sherlock had nowhere else to be, unless he was intending to begin his search that very night. Unlikely – he needed sleep, and even Sherlock wasn't dim enough to forgo rest when he was barely functioning without it. Looking at the bags under his brother's eyes, though, Mycroft took back the assumption. He stood and went up the stairs to his bedroom, taking Sherlock's phone from his bedside table, where he left it. Sometimes, before bed, he would observe the object. It was overly sentimental, he knew, but he could not help the comfort it gave him on lonely Autumn nights like that one. He took it back to the sitting room.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, accepting the item in a way that preventing his fingers from touching his brother's. Mycroft couldn't believe how different he seemed.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"There is one matter," Sherlock admitted. "Take this down." Obediently, Mycroft collected a pen and paper. "There is a girl, in America. Los Angeles, when I left her, but her records will likely be kept in New York City. Hahnie Locks. If you could see your way to send her some money, from my previous funds."

"She is of importance to you?" Mycroft asked wondrously.

"I'm not _so _far changed, do contain yourself," Sherlock warned, rolling his eyes. "But she proved herself to be quite...useful to me, on many occasions."

"I'll see to it that she's taken care of."

"Good," Sherlock said, as though he was fighting the urge to thank Mycroft again. He stood, and Mycroft followed him to the door, all the while wanting to drag him back to the couch. Sherlock already had his hand on the doorknob when Mycroft begged:

"Stay the night. Please."

"That would be unwise."

"Then at least let me give you something. Money, clothes...some _food, _for Christ's sake."

"Mycroft." Sherlock's eyes were glaring at the floor, and his stance was still unsteady, but his voice was sound.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started, the words he had rehearsed in his mind a thousand times over somehow escaping him at that precise moment. "I am..._so _sorry..." He gazed at Sherlock desperately, years of guilt forming their way into inarticulate phrases in his mind.

"Mycroft." Sherlock looked up generously, and spoke slowly. "I lost the _energy _to hate you a long time ago."

Mycroft realized that, of anything his brother could have said, _that_ was by far the most worrying.

He took a wary step towards Sherlock, and even though he was met with tightly closing eyes, he wrapped his arms around the frail man and tried to hug him.

Sherlock, of course, pulled away, but in a fashion unlike any Mycroft had expected. Not only did Sherlock shrink from the embrace, he completely spazzed, crying out and falling backwards against the still-closed door. He slid down the wood until he was pressed up against it, his knees cradled over his chest, which was heaving. He looked utterly terrified.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started, reaching toward him.

"Don't _touch _me!" Sherlock hissed, but he didn't mean it cruelly.

"Sherlock, what is _wrong _with you?"

"I'm sorry...I'm..." Sherlock lifted himself up and leaned against the door as he turned the doorknob behind him. He opened it and escaped in one smooth motion. Mycroft thought he could hear him whispering a brief farewell as he ran from the estate.

Mycroft let him run, as much as he wished to chase after the fleeing man. It was clear to him, though, that Sherlock wasn't about to let himself be touched. Not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **Nothing much to say here yet...just enjoy, folks, and please shoot me a review if you're able!

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><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Two<strong>

_"You'll need to get your roots done soon." She was walking next to him, taking an extra half-stride to keep up with each of his._

_ He glanced sideways to the blonde girl, her own bleached hair painfully dry and littered with brown spots at the crown of her head. _

_ "What are you talking about?" he asked, trying to look truly inquisitive._

_ "Please, there's no way blonde's your natural colour. Doesn't suit your colouring. The black eyebrows are a dead giveaway too, my love."_

_ "I'm not your _'love',_" he chided, and she rolled her eyes. He returned to her earlier statement. "I never claimed it to be."_

_When they reached the corner occupied by the detective they had been searching for, he ventured into an alleyway. She dealt with the official swiftly and returned with an envelope full of money. "Nice that they think I'm so brilliant."_

_ "Little do they know where the true intelligence is coming from."_

_ "Well, second-hand brilliance is better than none at all, don't you think, Sammy?"_

_ They began their journey back to the cheap apartment they were sharing that week. New York was a terrible place for rent pricing, and a roommate didn't do much in the way of helping, especially when you were sharing the same bed. Especially when, up until a little over a month earlier, both tenants had been unofficially homeless._

_ "So, when are you going to tell me who you're running from?" she asked after locking the door to the shabby place. He sat down on the bed, less from exhaustion as from the fact that it was the only other surface in the room apart from a small, unsteady 'kitchen' table._

_ "I never said I was running, either."_

_ "Please, you're the smartest person I ever met, and you're not even a freaking scientist! And you're English. _And_ you've styled your hair in the most unflattering way possible. If you're not running, then you're just..." she trailed off, unable to select an insult. "What's your name?"_

_ "You know my name."_

_ "Your _real _name."_

_ He paused, searching his mind for an appropriate lie. "John."_

_ He could practically watch her train of thought as if it were a series of lights going off in her mind. She was always so easy to read. "He's a blonde, too, isn't he?"_

_ "Who?"_

_ "John."_

_ "_I'm_ John."_

_ She couldn't have looked less impressed with him as she picked out his previous falsehoods. "He's an army doctor. And his sister's a drunk."_

_ "_My _sister is a drunk, Hahnie."_

_ "No." She shook her head, and went to sit next to him. He chose not to deny her. "That's not you. That's someone else's life. You're just borrowing it. Who is he, really? To you, you know?" She placed a hand over his. He snatched his back as quickly as he could, and she sighed, accustomed to his aversion to human touch._

_ "You don't have to tell me today. It's all right - just don't make up any more stories."_

_ He stood up from the bed and made his way to the door. "I'll be back tomorrow," he informed her, his promise sincere._

_ "Go and get your hair done," she suggested. "Try red this time. I don't think Johnny would appreciate you stealing his look."_

_ "Imitation is the highest form of flattery." He opened the door, preparing to leave._

_ "I'm gonna start calling you Johnny!"_

_ Sherlock Holmes allowed the tiniest glimmer of light to sparkle from his gaze as he shut the door gently on his young companion._

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><p>John Watson accomplished a lot in three years. Since the death of his best friend, he had been different, but somehow the spark for life Sherlock Holmes had given him never faded, and John decided to move forward. He had turned his position at the clinic into a full-time medical career, and he soon found himself a successful doctor at St. Bart's. Walking into that building everyday was horrible at first, the memories of Sherlock's plunge still fresh in his mind, but over time the pain became a dull discomfort, and John could honestly say that he was no longer plagued by past terrors.<p>

It was no surprise that Mary Morstan - John's fiance - had been vital to his healing. She was the new light of his life, and he couldn't wait for the day that they would be married. Three years after Sherlock's death, that day wasn't far off.

So, John had moved on. He never forgot his fallen friend, and never stopped believing in him, but he had accepted the loss, and his heart no longer felt empty. Sometimes, John still looked into various police cases, just to feel like he was part of an adventure once again. Lestrade was generous, and occasionally he even called to ask John along with the old team. Greg Lestrade was to be John's best man at the wedding. Who else could it be?

One thing that John didn't lose, however, was the flat. 221B was still occupied by the army doctor, and while one bedroom had been replaced with a dull office for John's work, many Holmesian items could still be found strewn about the place. John observed them sometimes, reflecting back on times spent consumed by battle and excitement. Mrs. Hudson, of course, had lowered the rent in order for him to stay her tenant. Such a nice old woman, she was, and John adored her more than most. He could tell that she was sad, though. She missed Sherlock as much as he did, and while she too was coping, sometimes he could see a distance in her gaze that told him everything he needed to know. Losing Sherlock was like losing a son to the sweet woman. It ripped a hole through the strange little family they had concocted together. A family, because John had felt as though he lost his brother.

Well, Sherlock was more than a brother. Less than a lover, more than a friend. Sometimes Mary claimed to be jealous of the love John still held for Sherlock, but the smile on her lips told him she understood. How could anyone be quite so understanding? Yes, Mary was John's soul mate as much as Sherlock had been, and he often wondered what the best man he'd ever known would think of her. Would Sherlock have liked Mary? She was pretty, with blonde curls and gleefully expressive lines around her eyes. Sherlock didn't care for looks. Mary was smart. A school-teacher, and a good one, with a penchant for children. Maybe Sherlock would have found her too soft at first, too sentimental. But then, Sherlock had grown accustomed to John's sentimentality: who was to say he wouldn't continue the trend with her?

It was no matter, since Sherlock was gone. Dead and gone for three years.

And then he was back.

It had been an unusual day from the start. John had been with Lestrade in the morning, getting fitted for new suits. After an hour of laughter, they found themselves discussing a recent case regarding Ronald Adair, a wealthy gambler who had been murdered. His killer was still on the loose, but it didn't seem serial. Lestrade took John to the crime scene later that evening, and he had dropped him off at the launderer near Baker Street before going home himself.

"Want to come by the flat for a nightcap?" John offered before exiting the vehicle. Lestrade's home had been empty for weeks, leaving him there alone.

"Nah, I think I'll tuck in early tonight," the Inspector answered, and the two men said their goodbyes.

_Laundry was boring,_ John thought as he collected his items into a duffel bag. Funny how many things reminded him of Sherlock.

221B was only two blocks away, but the trek there in the dark did have a menacing quality to it. John embraced the tension of the night, since it was one of the few things that reminded him of walking with Sherlock Holmes. It was a small kick, but he had to get them somewhere.

Little did he know that the kick he was to receive happened to be a literal one, and John found himself winded against an alleyway wall before he made it so far as a block.

"What do you want?" he demanded of his attacker as soon as he regained his breath, an unmasked man around his own age. "Who _are _you?" he went on as the man started searching through his pockets. John was met with some success as he started throwing punches, but he froze the moment he heard the cocking of a gun. The man holding him let go instantly, and pulled out a weapon of his own. John searched around in the darkness for the initial gunman.

"Where are you?" John's attacker asked into the night, pointing a revolver at his temple. John turned his head, and his reward was a great one.

Sherlock Holmes was slowly tip-toeing into a beam of moonlight, pointing a gun at the criminal. John thought that he might faint.

"Take one more step and he dies," the attacker announced, shaking the gun in front of John's face. But he was looking at Sherlock...

In a moment of pure adrenaline, John snatched the gun from his hand and turned it onto him. He backed away, keeping the weapon ready for fire.

"Who's in trouble now, Moran?" Sherlock taunted, but John could tell that he took no enjoyment in it. Instantly, the man called Moran started reaching toward the back of his pants, and before he could retrieve a second gun, Sherlock was yelling: "RUN, JOHN!"

John supposed he had complied by mere force of habit. There he was, running with Sherlock Holmes after being randomly attacked by a man named Moran.

Just another day on the job.

Just another day with Sherlock.

"Sherlock..._Sherlock..._" John kept whispering as he chased after his friend, hopping gates and jumping from terraces. Were they still being followed?

Sherlock was slower now, John noticed. And was he bald? No, his hair was just barely growing in, John realized when the hood of his jumper fell onto his back. He was thinner than John had ever seen him. His face was hollow. In fact, as soon as they were stopped in a new alleyway and Sherlock normalizing his breath, John decided upon further inspection that the best description for Sherlock after three years was, indeed, _hollow._

Both men were panting, neither as fit as they used to be. Sherlock spoke first.

"When I said run, I had hoped you would have known to separate yourself from me," he panted.

"Haven't we been apart long enough?"

The two men were staring at each other for at least twenty-seconds before Sherlock spoke again.

"Go home, John."

John let out a loud, scoffing laugh. Why was he so calm? _Probably just the shock, _he reminded himself, but that would fade eventually. Sherlock had been dead for years, and yet John found himself right back where he'd been before the Fall. Running with Sherlock was easy. It was the natural thing to do, and John felt as much at home as he could have done.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was clutching his left arm as though it was the only thing holding him upright, and while his breathing had finally slowed, he looked utterly mortified.

"Go home," he ordered again.

"Give me one good reason to do that."

John felt the urge to hold out his arms as Sherlock's eyes dashed all over his body. The deductive stare felt like a warm, familiar light to him. John couldn't help but grin.

"She's in trouble," Sherlock finally told him. "You should go to her." John could tell he was lying from the moment his mouth opened.

"No, she's fine." Mary was safe and sound at her flat, and they both knew it.

Sherlock searched John again, but didn't appear able to come up with any further reasoning to why John couldn't stay and assist him in whatever case he was conquering. John frowned when he noticed his friend's shivering.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked. Sherlock shrugged. "Slept?" A sigh, and another shrug. John suppressed a giggle. _How little things changed. _"Well," he decided as he opened his arms, "let's get this over with!" He started quickly towards Sherlock, preparing for a long overdue hug-

-but Sherlock shrunk away as soon as John came within three feet of him.

"The time for reunions is not now," he said, turning his back. John dropped his arms, defeated.

"Who's after you?" he asked.

"Sebastian Moran. Sniper. Moriarty's best man."

John's eyes widened, but he tried to suppress his excitement. "And where do we start?"

"You'll start at home. Get a cab."

"Sort of a waste of money, taking a cab less than six streets."

Sherlock looked confused. "You still live at Baker Street?"

"Couldn't let Mrs. Hudson lose her favourite lodger," John joked. "You didn't know?"

"How could I?"

"I just..." John shrugged away his pause. "I thought you might have been keeping an eye out on us, or something like that."

Sherlock didn't look John in the eye as he answered. "My focus has been...elsewhere." John realized a moment later that he wasn't positive Sherlock had really looked at him at all. "Go back to the flat. Please." He was still holding his arm, occasionally scratching at it.

"You obviously need help with this guy, so no. I'm not leaving you."

"Please-"

"No!" John was annoyed, but he still hadn't reached the point of anger. "And if I do go home, you're coming with me. You need rest. We can take care of this tomorrow."

"You assume it's so simple. I'm a criminal, remember?"

"Yeah, my favourite fraud," John answered sarcastically. "Look, I don't know why you're back now, or why you even left in the first place, but I...I trust you."

Sherlock glowered. "Any way I can convince you that this is all just a dream?"

John laughed – a real, genuine laugh. For a moment, Sherlock look pleased, but then his face grew series once again. The scratching continued, and John found himself starting to watch it. What was so itchy on Sherlock's forearm-

Ah, yes. Anger. John's shock was shoved out of sight as soon as his fury over-took it.

"John-" Sherlock started, separating his arms as quickly as he could.

"Sherlock, after all your hard work! Years of..._Christ, _Sherlock, how _could _you?" John was approaching Sherlock menacingly. "Is that what kept you away so long? Running off with drugs instead of coming home to – to everyone! Bloody...I mean..."

Sherlock could only back down the alley so far, and when John was close enough to hit him, he didn't. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock's left wrist, and started rolling up the sleeve.

"Don't you know what this _does _to you? It's not just fun, not just some _seven-percent solution!_" Sherlock whimpered, but John kept shouting, oblivious to his uncharacteristic horror."_This_ is _doing something! _It _means _something, when you do this to yourself!"

Finally, Sherlock was able to pull away, and he did so with such energy that John thought he might burst into a bolt of lightening and zap himself away. He flailed into the corner of the alley with a great cry and John sobered instantly when he saw his friend curled up in a ball on the ground. Sherlock slowly pulled himself up into a seated position again the wall, dragging his knees up towards his chest and resting his arms on them as he caught his breath.

John hadn't noticed he was gaping. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though blinking would make Sherlock disappear. When his eyes opened, the detective remained. It didn't take long for John to realize the source of the problem. "So...it's a no touching thing, is it?" he asked gently.

Sherlock looked away pointedly.

"Right. Okay." John walked to the wall and turned, sliding his back down until he was seated next to Sherlock, who inched away slightly, still cradling his left arm. They sat together in a new, broader silence, and for the first time John was realizing exactly how much Sherlock had changed. "I'm not mad," John informed him as though he were a frightened child. Sherlock started to roll up his sleeve in order to scratch his inflamed forearm. John tried not to watch, but he couldn't keep himself from glancing. He just didn't expect to find what he did. "Let me see your arm."

Then Sherlock looked at him – really looked. Or perhaps it was a glare.

"I won't touch it," John assured him. Reluctantly, Sherlock held out his arm. Habitually, John reached out for it, but he stopped himself when Sherlock started to twitch back. "Okay, it's okay..." he calmed his friend, and observed the appendage.

Sherlock's arm was red from the scratching. Bruised even: Sherlock had probably clung onto it too tightly. Those were the only marks on it, though. No puncture hole, because there had been no needle. Sherlock was clean.

"Amazing." Sherlock smirked as he stared at the wall ahead of them.

"What is?"

"You were able to deduce what even Mycroft couldn't." And for the first time in years, if only for a moment, John heard the sound of his best friend's laugh.

He would be _damned _if it wasn't the most incredible sound in the world.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Notes: **Thanks for the response on the last chapter! We're just getting started, so it's nice to see people interested. Don't forget to send me your thoughts!

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><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Three<strong>

It took a few minutes before John found himself able to speak, still recovering from hearing Sherlock's laughter. He regretted his earlier rage, especially after realizing that Sherlock hadn't been doing drugs at all. He'd wanted to, though, and if his endless scratching was any indication, he still wanted to.

"How long?"

"Since what?"

"Since...your last...when was the last time?"

Sherlock shook his head. "There wasn't one. Not since before we met."

John nodded, despite his confusion. "When did the cravings start?"

The former consulting detective closed his eyes. It was as though John speaking to him was causing him pain. Eventually, Sherlock allowed his eyes to open, his face still somewhat wincing. "As soon as Moriarty died," he finally answered, and John forced himself not to gasp.

"That's three years, Sherlock." The obvious statement was met with an eye-roll. "That's...and you never...?"

Sherlock shook his head. John found himself standing, which caused Sherlock to look quite relieved. John was a little insulted by that: why was Sherlock so adverse to his touch? John hadn't done anything, and as far as he knew Sherlock wasn't afraid of him, not really. It was all far too bizarre to try and deduce at that point. He needed more information.

Soon, Sherlock was standing as well, and he rolled down his sleeve.

John let out a short, heavy breath. "All right, where to?"

"Please don't follow me," Sherlock begged weakly, but it was obvious that his request would not be met.

"Why did he attack me?" John found himself asking.

"He knows I'm alive. He must have seen you on his way to me, thought it might get my attention." Sherlock shrugged, in a way that John found odd. His movement was different than it had been before. While he remained emotionally rigid, and froze every time John took a step towards him, his body language was more...relaxed? Obvious was a better word. Bigger, even. "All bets are off, after all."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but went on: "He'll be looking for me, but I'd rather find him first. Catch him off guard, and then capture him. Or kill him, better off."

"That seems a bit harsh."

"Then clearly you don't know him like I do."

"I don't know _him _at all. But the Sherlock Holmes I know is not-"

"I'm _not_ the Sherlock Holmes you knew," the taller man hissed, and that was the moment John realized exactly how much Sherlock must have been through those past three years. Three years of craving a drug he knew he couldn't have. Three years evading the fellow criminals of the worst he'd ever encountered. Battling them, perhaps? Worst of all, Sherlock had spent three years untouched by the people he refused to call his friends, but loved all the same.

"Where do you think he'll go?" John asked, if only to break the silence.

"He'll go somewhere spacious, but unpopulated."

"Shall we try Regent's Park?"

Sherlock looked a little surprised at John's recommendation. Perhaps even a little proud. He nodded, and started in that direction. John followed, coyly bringing himself next to his old friend. As he tried to keep up, their arms brushed, and Sherlock brought his hand to his left arm, cradling it as he had been doing earlier. He was distancing himself from John any way that he could. John frowned. For three years, just how alone had Sherlock been?

* * *

><p><em>She had brought him home with her. Forced him, was more like it. He had hoped she could make her way back alone, but she'd insisted that he join her. At first he had only consented because he assumed her to be fearful of walking in the darkness, but it soon became clear from her gait that she was no more afraid than he was of walking alone in the city. Within a few hours of their meeting, Sherlock found himself in the shabby motel room with Hahnie Locks, his most recent rescue. She couldn't have been more than twenty, and her skin was tanned in patches from spending so much time outside, even in the New York spring. Her hair was a mousy brown colour that reminded him of Molly's. She led him inside, giving him some corny speech about owing him her life. He was surprised at how unshaken she seemed, though. She must have been accustomed to danger.<em>

_ "...I couldn't leave you out on the streets, anyway," she finished her tale. He tried to look surprised._

_ "What makes you think I'd be on the street?"_

_ She raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, welcome to my home."_

_ "This week, you mean."_

_ She smirked. "The price goes down if I last any longer than that. Here's hoping I do."_

_ "You're homeless."_

_ "No. Just...mobile." Her face became serious. "I always have a roof over my head, no matter how bad things get."_

_ "Do you have a job?"_

_ "I was working at a soup kitchen across the way."_

_ "Not anymore?"_

_ She shrugged. He could have laughed at the motion, it was so exaggerated. "Let's just say I ran into some old friends, and management wasn't as charitable as they pretend to be."_

_ "You can't afford this room," he had deduced while she was speaking._

_ "How do you do that?" she asked._

_ "Do what?"_

_ "You've been doing it all night. You just...know things. You're not psychic, are you?" Sherlock scoffed. She smiled. "Well, at least I know you're not crazy."_

_ "Well done," he commented sarcastically as he approached the door. "I'll be leaving, now-"_

_ "No!" she cried, and he found himself turning back to her. "I mean...don't go."_

_ "There's no more reason for me to stay."_

_ "I don't even know your name," she said, as though that were a good reason._

_ "Samuel," he lied easily, using the name he'd created for himself over a year earlier._

_ "Aren't you hungry, Sam?"_

_ Sherlock nodded before he was aware of doing so. He silently cursed himself as she opened a small cupboard and removed a loaf of bread and some peanut butter, as well as some fresh-looking bananas. His mouth watered. He hadn't eaten in over three days, and that was a long time, even for him. She started making sandwiches._

_ "There's a kettle. I have some tea bags, but no milk."_

_ "That's fine." He opened the zipper-locked pocket on an old jacket he'd purchased second-hand. In it he pulled out a handful of sugar packets he'd stolen from a cheap cafe. "I have sugar," he said, placing them on the wobbly round table by the kitchen area of the room._

_ "Great," she said, and flipped a button on the kettle before returning to the sandwiches. Just __before she finished, the water had reached a boil, and she left the peanut butter to start on the tea. "I think I should probably dye my hair, just in case he's after me."_

_ "Probably wise."_

_ "And a good excuse to change my look," she joked. "So, you_ do_ think he's after me?"_

_ Sherlock frowned. No, John Clay was not after this girl, and if she hadn't bumped into him that morning then she never would have found herself mixed up with their business. Clay was Sherlock's next step on the Moriarty web of criminals, and he had been evading Sherlock for weeks, the two simultaneous chasing and escaping one another. Their battle had brought them to New York City only days earlier, and Sherlock found familiarizing himself with the area rather difficult. He had consulted Hahnie for directions after his visit to the cafe for some tea, and she had led him to the nearest gun shop. What had Clay seen in her that would make him think Sherlock would try and save her?_

_ And why had Sherlock done exactly as he'd expected?_

_ "I believe he'll stay out of your way after tonight," he finally answered, scratching his forearm as he usually did when he was nervous._

_ Hahnie placed a chipped mug in front of Sherlock with a spoon, and he added his sugar to it before taking a sip. "I'll go and get some better food tomorrow," she told him, finishing the sandwiches._

_ "I'm glad to hear it," he replied, "but only for your sake. I'm not staying."_

_ She frowned. "You're safer here, and you know it. Besides," she added, and Sherlock almost couldn't stop himself from agreeing, "You need the rest."_

_ He sighed as she handed him a plate with his peanut butter sandwich and banana. "I appreciate your generosity-"_

_ "-You saved my life. It's the _least _I can do."_

_ Sherlock finished his small meal in silence, and Hahnie did the same, respectfully. Once they had each finished, it was he who took the plates to the sink and washed them, glad that the motel had provided dishwasher soap. Just as he was about to thank this odd girl, she interrupted him:_

_ "So, what do you do?"_

_ "Nothing. You've already gathered that I'm homeless."_

_ "Yes, but a man as brilliant as you are must have had a job sometime."_

_ "You think I'm brilliant?"_

_ She tilted her head, giving him a knowing smile. "Don't get all big-headed now. Obviously you are. What you did tonight...it...that was amazing," she finished with a tiny chuckle, her face marvelling as though she were realizing it for the first time._

_ And for some reason, at that moment, Sherlock decided to take her up on her offer._

_ "I have some money," he said. "Not much, but...together, we could afford to stay here a while."_

_ "Good." She stood. "I'm exhausted. Bed?"_

_ "I'll take the cot," he said, nodding towards the folded item in the corner._

_ "Don't be silly," she told him, already pulling the covers down the queen sized bed. She went into the bathroom to change into her pyjamas, and Sherlock neglected her offer by setting up the cot. She rolled her eyes when she returned to the room. "Fine, but don't say I didn't offer." Her face went red. "Which isn't to say...I don't mean..." Then she frowned. "Maybe I shouldn't have...no. Never mind."_

_ "Never mind what?"_

_ "It's just...you're not planning on getting any ideas, are you?"_

_ Sherlock felt the urge to laugh, an impulse he'd not had in far too long. "If you're concerned about...attraction...you have no reason to be."_

_ Her frown remained, and she broke eye-contact with him. "What I'm talking about has absolutely nothing to do with attraction," she told him, and bit her lip._

_ His own expression grew solemn. "You will not ever have to worry about that with me," he promised._

_ "No," she realized, throwing him a trusting smile, "I won't, will I?"_

_ The two went to their respective sleeping arrangements, and Hahnie turned out the light on the bedside table. Sherlock found himself about to fall asleep for the first time in far too long, but just as he was drifting off he heard the girl's voice:_

_ "Will you promise me something?"_

_ He cleared his throat. "What?"_

_ She didn't speak for a moment, the dark room filled with silence. Then: "Just...if you leave – and it's okay if you do – tell me, would you? Wake me up or something. Don't just...go."_

_ Sherlock didn't know whether it was because she sounded so weak or because her request seemed so pragmatic, but he found himself complying._

_ "I swear I won't."_

* * *

><p>"Her name is Mary."<p>

John didn't know why he said it. Maybe it was just force of habit – he was still comfortable with Sherlock, despite the way his old friend seemed desperate to distance himself from that comfort. Maybe it was because he'd wanted to say it for such a long time. He wanted Sherlock to know about her, and for him to see her as a new part of their lives. Or maybe he just wanted Sherlock to accept her. Either way, Sherlock didn't seem too surprised by the statement. He nodded.

John shut up.

Sherlock didn't. "You love her."

John laughed. "Yes. Obviously."

Then Sherlock was silent.

It was the most awkward of conversations. In some ways, walking with Sherlock felt exactly as it had three years earlier, but in others...in others it was completely new, because this Sherlock was new. What had changed him?

"So, where've you been? Chasing down Moriarty's web of bandits must have taken you all over the world."

"I believe that therein lies your answer, then."

"Well, then tell me about your most recent adventure. Or your first. I want to know everything."

"Perhaps some other time."

"Sherlock!" John stopped. He wanted to grab Sherlock to stop him as well, but he knew that it would be unwise to do so. To his credit, Sherlock did pause, and turned.

"What?" he asked. Before, he would have looked baffled by John's display of frustration, unaware that he was doing anything wrong – well, not wrong. Odd. Now, though, he knew. He knew exactly how his distance was hurting his friend.

"Let's go to the flat," John responded helplessly. There were so many things he wanted to say, like to ask Sherlock why he hadn't trusted him with knowledge of his life, or to demand that the taller man allow him just one long overdue embrace, but instead he just wanted Sherlock to go home and rest. Mostly, though, to go home. To erase the past three years, and to continue on where they'd left off. Together. "He won't find you there."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John nearly smiled. Finally, a gesture that looked like Sherlock. "On the contrary: that is the most obvious place to find me."

"Exactly."

Sherlock looked as though he might actually agree with John, but instead he started walking again. "No. I want this over and done with."

John caught up. "Then you'll come home?"

"You're getting married, John. There would hardly be room for a flatmate."

"I don't mean Baker Street," John told him. "Unless you want to live there. Mary and I are getting a house. I just mean...you'll stay, won't you? In London?" Sherlock didn't answer. "I don't know why you wouldn't. This should be...Christ, this should be good, Sherlock. Happy. You're back!"

Sherlock still looked miserable.

They reached the park, and stopped at a small clearing. Sherlock paced around the area.

"We won't have to wait long," he said. "Please leave."

"Quit saying that," John commanded him as he pulled Moran's revolver from his waistband. It had been a long time since John had fired a gun, but as he stood in the darkness with Sherlock Holmes, he felt as relaxed as he'd ever been.

"Then go behind that tree," Sherlock ordered back, pointing to a wide tree a few yards away. "You can cover me. He won't show up if he thinks you're here."

John couldn't argue with that logic. If Moran knew half as much about him as Moriarty did, then he knew what a good shot John could be. So, John nodded, and started walking away. He hid behind the tree, pressing his back up against it, and he waited at the ready.

He waited for at least ten minutes before growing bored. Perhaps Moran wasn't coming at all. Cautiously, he leaned around the stump, and as soon as he could see the clearing where Sherlock was supposed to be, he groaned.

He groaned, because he realized how stupid he had been. He must have been out of practice, otherwise he would have remembered the first rule of Sherlock Holmes:

Sherlock lied.

He lied, because Moran wasn't going to show up.

Moran wasn't coming, because Sherlock wasn't there.

He had run. He had left John alone.

Again.

And then, far away, John heard the splash.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: **No flashback for this chapter, I think. I don't want to give away too much of what Sherlock's been up to just yet. Please send me your thoughts and reviews - and enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Four<strong>

Finding the source of the sound was easy for John, who knew that there was a small bank of water not so far away from where Sherlock had tried to leave him. What did worry him, though, was what he would find when he got there. Either Sherlock had caught up with Moran and tossed him into the water, or Moran had done the same to him. John prayed that Sherlock had the upper hand in the battle, but when he arrived at the low bridge, he was face to face with Moriarty's best man.

"Where's Sherlock?" John demanded of the grinning psychopath before him.

"Isn't it obvious?" Moran pointed into the water. Even with only the dim lanterns on the romantic bridge as light, John could see a dark spot at the bottom of the surprisingly deep pond. But why hadn't Sherlock resurfaced? "Old fashioned way to kill someone, tying them up to a rock, but it worked during the witch trials. I think this guy's a much bigger problem than they were."

John didn't waste any time removing his jacket and running towards the water, but Moran stopped him, pointing his revolver. John returned the gesture.

"Ah, so we find ourselves at a stand-off. What do you say? Turn around, three paces, first one not to die wins-_ah!_"

John knew from the minute he pulled the trigger that he'd missed Moran's heart, instead shooting him in his left shoulder. Luckily, he was holding his gun in his left hand, and dropped the weapon upon the hit. John cocked his gun, pretending to prepare a new bullet when, in reality, he'd already counted. He had used up his only bullet. "Run," he threatened, before Moran could retrieve his own weapon.

John didn't chase the criminal. There wasn't time, and who was to say how _much_ time had passed since Sherlock had been thrown into the water? He rushed in from next to the bridge, forcing himself to sink down to where Sherlock was unconscious. He had been bundled into a heavy coat that was well-strapped to him. Moran could not have been working alone, then. But where had his henchmen gone, and why hadn't they helped him during his face-off with John? It was no matter. John, running high on adrenaline, easily unstrapped Sherlock from the weighted coat and pulled him onto the grass.

Low pulse. Not breathing.

If John hadn't been a tenacious doctor before, he was at that moment, beating and breathing Sherlock's body back into life for what seemed like an eternity before the great detective was coughing up water onto the ground. John turned him onto his side, whispering his praises to whichever deity had given Sherlock back to him once again. He was holding onto Sherlock's shoulder as he finished horking up from his lungs. Sherlock was shivering, and John retrieved his jacket from next to the bridge. He wrapped it around Sherlock, who was attempting to lift himself up.

"Relax," John ordered, rubbing his arms to create some extra warmth.

Sherlock still pushed himself onto the sides of his knees, his arms forcefully trying to keep his torso from the ground. He was still coughing as he tried to regain his breath, and after a few minutes he was still shaking. His eyes met with the source of the problem: John was still trying to warm him. Sherlock pulled away, but John instinctively reached out and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. As he tried to bring Sherlock's head into his body – just for one small embrace – he realized that his face was free of pond-water, but dripping with tears. Sherlock's eyes were as red as his were, but he was unwilling to submit to the gesture, waving his hands in front of himself weakly as if he wanted to push John away, but couldn't bring himself to make contact with his former friend.

"Please," he begged, and John let go. In an impressive feat, Sherlock stood in one motion, letting John's jacket drop from his shoulders. "They'll come back to check on me," he said, his voice raw from his near-death experience.

"How many of them?"

"Two extra. They're trying to remain uninvolved. Probably separate from Moran, but they'll follow his orders regardless."

"Then we'll have to hide somewhere," John decided.

"I'll hide. You-"

"-Has that even come close to working yet?"

Sherlock brought a hand to his mouth, wiping away something that wasn't there. Now it was completely obvious to John that he was attempting not to sob.

"Sherlock," John began cautiously, "You nearly died just now. You need to rest."

Sherlock nodded, barely able to stay upright. "I can find somewhere to sleep."

"I know a place."

"I'm _not _going to Baker Street!"

John nearly gasped at the strength of Sherlock's voice. Who was this new man, and why was he so determined to push John away? As Sherlock clutched his arm to steady himself, John picked up the discarded jacket and reached into its pocket, retrieving his mobile. He held it up.

"I can call Mycroft," he offered. Sherlock shook his head.

"Another obvious location, and I can't stay at any of his facilities at the moment. Not with his secret service friends so...unimpressed with me."

John tried to ignore the fact that Mycroft had clearly been aware of Sherlock's return and refrained from telling him as he searched his mind for another place Sherlock could stay. Then, it was so obvious-

"Lestrade."

Sherlock looked weary. "No."

"Sherlock, I will _not _let you sleep out on the street, especially when I should be taking you to the hospital. Greg is someone we can trust, and if you won't come back to the flat, well...then..." John couldn't think of a proper threat, so instead he finished with, "...please?"

Sherlock walked over to the nearest lamp post and leaned against it, considering John's offer. Finally: "You'll go back to the flat? They can't see you going anywhere unusual, or they'll attack you."

"Fine."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know where he lives."

"It's not far from here."

"You've gotten to know each other quite well, I gather?"

John's mouth was open before he could stop himself. "Well, _someone _had to be my best man." John cleared his throat. "Wait, no...that's not what I-"

"-On the contrary," Sherlock interrupted, looking away pointedly. "I'm thrilled to learn that you were not void of companionship in my absence. Truly." It was one of the most sincere statements John had ever heard Sherlock say. He just wished it hadn't come out of such shoddy circumstances. Sherlock changed the subject. "Call Lestrade."

"You'll go then?" John asked hopefully, already dialling.

"When you like and where you like."

John winced – not because Sherlock was submitting to his request, but because the man was only doing so out of a place of utter defeat.

Sherlock's frame sunk down to a perched position on the ground as John brought the mobile to his ear, pacing away. A groggy Lestrade answered.

_"Jesus, John, it's after midnight."_

"Is it? Sorry, Greg...I need your help."

_"What's wrong?" _John was amazed at how immediately Lestrade seemed to rouse himself. _"Is everything okay, John?"_

"I'm fine. It's just...I'm sending someone your way. Are you alone? No one else can know."

_"John, if this is some sort of pre-wedding prank-"_

"-No, it's not. I swear it's not."

_"Then what the hell is the matter?"_

John took a deep breath, realizing for the first time how insane he was about to sound. "It's _him, _Greg. He's nearly just drowned, and he needs a safe place to stay the night."

_"Who's _him_?"_

"...Sherlock."

There was a long period of silence before Lestrade answered. _"John...look, I know this is a hard time for you, buddy, but we've been through this before-"_

"-I know how ridiculous this sounds, but I need you to trust me on this."

_"He's dead, John." _An hour earlier, John would have known that to be true. _"Look, if you want to stop by and have a chat, come on by. I'm here for you, you know that."_

"Then do this for me. He'll knock three times-"

_"-Mate!-"_

"-And anyway, aren't you curious?" John knew that trying to prove himself would be tedious, and asking Sherlock to take the mobile would be even more useless. He knew that sparking Lestrade's interest was the best way to proceed. He heard a sigh on the other end. "He'll knock three times on the back door. He'll be there in fifteen. Be ready to let him in quick."

_"Aren't you coming, too?"_

John frowned. "No. Too suspicious."

_"Suspicious? What are you...?" _There was more silence, and then: _"Okay. Fine. Fifteen minutes, and if he doesn't show, I'm committing you."_

John chucked briefly, and dropped his voice to a whisper. "Greg, there's one more thing...you can't...you mustn't touch him."

_"Touch him? What do you mean?" _There was a loud sigh. _"John, first you tell me there's a dead man walking about, and then you say he can't be touched? I'm really starting to think I should come over-"_

"No, you _can _touch him, just...don't. It...I don't know, does something to him. Hurts him, I think."

_"Like I said. Fifteen minutes, John."_

"Right. Good." John cleared his throat. "Thank you, Greg."

_"I'll text you when he gets here. You take care of yourself, now."_

John hung up his mobile and returned to the tree where Sherlock had remained, probably more from exhaustion than intent. He gave Sherlock Lestrade's address and instructed him to knock three times. "You'll have to hurry, before he thinks I've gone bonkers."

John nearly reached out to give Sherlock a hand standing up, but thought better of it. Sherlock pushed against the tree to make it back to his feet, and then gave John a look of realization so child-like that the doctor nearly burst into tears.

"He won't touch you," John promised, and that seemed to ease Sherlock's mind. "I'll come for you in the morning. We'll take care of this together."

Sherlock nodded, but pursed his lips. He took an unsteady step away from the tree.

"You sure I can't walk you there?" John asked. Begged, was more like it.

"Goodnight, John."

Sherlock's stride was surprisingly swift, but the detective still leaned into his left side, grasping his arm so tightly John knew it would bruise.

John decided to take a cab back to Baker Street, uneasy about walking around London with Moriarty's henchmen on the loose. When he reached the flat, he went straight to the kitchen to brew himself a cup of tea, and stared out the window as he drank it, praying that Sherlock had succumbed to his request. After what seemed to take forever, he received a text.

** Turns out you're not quite as mad as I'd thought. Try and get some rest – he is. GL**

It was John's turn to oblige.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: ** Lots to write, not enough time to write it! Read and review, friends!

* * *

><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Five<strong>

Lestrade was amazed that he had woken up first. After showering, dressing, and starting breakfast, he walked into the living room, expecting to find a wired Sherlock Holmes. Instead, the usually early-rising man was still sound asleep on the couch, his brows in a knot on his forehead as though he were having a painful dream. It wasn't how Lestrade expected to find him...but then, he hadn't really expected to see him again at all. Ever.

John would be arriving soon, he knew, but Sherlock had seemed so exhausted before. He needed as much rest as he could get.

Hours before, Lestrade had waited by the back door, with no window to see outside into his yard. When the knocking came (a few minutes late), he half expected to find a distressed John Watson on the other side of the threshold, but as soon as he opened the door he found his home being invaded by a tall, dripping wet, stumbling man.

Sherlock threw himself into the house, steadying himself on the wall as soon as he had gotten a few good steps away from Lestrade. Lestrade remembered John's orders not to touch him, and while he wanted to help steady the supposedly dead man, he simply closed and locked his door. Sherlock gave Lestrade a short nod, looking as surprised to be in the same room together as he did. Lestrade knew that pointing out any of that shock - or the fact that Sherlock was supposed to be deceased – would only be met with an eye-roll. Or would it?

"Thank you," Sherlock breathed with difficulty. Right. John said he'd just nearly drowned.

"I'm glad you made it here all right," said Lestrade, and Sherlock nodded again, looking strangely grateful – probably grateful that he hadn't collapsed on the way. Lestrade passed him to move out of the back entrance, Sherlock turning himself in fear of their bodies touching, and led him deeper into the house. "My bedroom is upstairs, go ahead and take my bed."

Sherlock eyed the staircase before him, and looked more defeated than Lestrade had ever seen him. "Couch is fine, thanks," he mumbled. Lestrade nodded, and led him to the living room, worried that he might faint. Sherlock stared at it, but didn't sit, and started to remove his soaked black hoodie.

"I'll get you something to sleep in," Lestrade said, eyeing Sherlock's clothes. Not only were they wet, they were ratty, and Lestrade made a mental note of going through his son's old closet in the morning to find something for him to wear. He went up the stairs and returned with some old sweats. "I'll let you change," he said, going back up the stairs to collect some blankets. When he returned, Sherlock was already laying on the coach, and he had left his clothes folded in the bathroom sink. He was breathing heavily on his back, clutching his left arm, which Lestrade could now see was heavily bruised and abused.

Lestrade was one of the few people who had known Sherlock during his dealings with drugs, and he dained to know what the man had been up to in the past three years. If he was back on them, no wonder he was so jumpy. He tried not to worry about it just yet.

He knew Sherlock was asleep because the younger man didn't flinch when Lestrade covered him in blankets. When he was finished, he took a pillow from a nearby seat and gently lifted Sherlock's head onto it, letting his hand linger a moment too long, feeling the prickled skin where dark hair was starting to grow back in. It was at that moment that he realized how awful Sherlock looked. He was too skinny, too hairless, too...dead. It was like looking at the corpse of the great man, just as he thought he'd done three years earlier.

Lestrade shivered. This was all far too bizarre. Before climbing up the stairs to his own bedroom, he whispered: "Don't run off, now."

* * *

><p><em> "Sherlock Holmes, what have I said about leaving me like that?" Hahnie said, swatting his arms and torso in true anger. Sherlock allowed her abuse, understanding her tears and knowing he deserved them. Eventually, she cooled, and folded her arms together as she glared at him.<em>

_ "I'm sorry," he told her sincerely. "I thought I would have returned before you'd notice my absence."_

_ "Well, I noticed. For three freaking days, I noticed!"_

_ "I got caught up." It was true. Sherlock had left the bleak apartment they were sharing as soon as Hahnie had fallen asleep, assuming that he would come back before she woke up again._

_ He had intended it to be a quick errand: he knew where Jason Kalloman was, and he thought he would be able to take him by surprise, easily neutralizing another one of Moriarty's criminals. But he had been wrong, and his game of cat-and-mouse had taken longer to finish than intended. At least he had come out the victor, despite the injuries he'd obtained along the way._

_ "Tell me it was worth it," she ordered. Sherlock nodded. "Tell me you wouldn't have...tell me you would have let me help you, if you'd known it would take so long."_

_ "You know I wouldn't have," he admitted. "But I would have told you, at least. I'm sorry I worried you."_

_ "Good, because I do worry about you. All the fucking time." Hahnie's voice was still coated with distaste, but she had already traipsed over to their small kitchenette and started opening a can of soup, no doubt on a mission to feed him, as she always was. "I don't ask for a lot, and I'm not forcing you stay, I just need you to tell me when you're going, otherwise I'm gonna think you're dead."_

_ "I know."_

_ "And it's not just the thinking you're dead. It's...I thought that, if you weren't dead, maybe you..."_

_ He sighed, knowing exactly what she couldn't say. "I don't hate you."_

_ "Well, what am I supposed to think?" She had poured the contents of the can into a bowl, covered it, and was setting the microwave to heat it up. "My best friend disappears in the night, and I don't hear from him for days. You could have at least messaged me."_

_ "My mobile ran out credit."_

_ Hahnie rolled her eyes as she mimicked his statement in a humourously false English accent. "Well...fine. But don't do it again. Or I'll come after you."_

_ "I'm terrified," Sherlock joked, and Hahnie allowed him the tiniest smile. '_I'm glad you're all right,' _it said. Eventually, the microwave beeped, and Hahnie split the soup into two bowls. Even with the money they were making helping the local police with various cases (on the down-low, of course), most of it went to paying rent. They had actually successfully lived in this particular apartment together for over two months, beating their previous record of three weeks in the shabby motel from almost a year earlier, when they had met._

_ They ate together in silence, as they often did, taking comfort in the taste of their small meal. He would never admit it, but he only ever ate when she was with him, saving his money on every other occasion. He would still occasionally claim that digestion slowed him down, but Hahnie was better than John at keeping him fed. In fact, she had trained Sherlock in a way that John never could have, forcing him to remain tidy and he even found himself – on the very rare occasion – bringing home the milk. When they were finished eating, it was Sherlock's turn to brew their tea._

_ "You're lucky you found the only tea-obsessed American in New York City," she quipped, accepting her mug._

_ "Yes. I would hate to find out what a cup of coffee does to you," he countered, and she laughed, blowing into the darkening liquid. Then, she looked up at him, and she had that face that said, _'There's something I've been meaning to ask you.'

_"What is it?" he asked, reading her perfectly._

_ Hahnie frowned. "When you were gone, I sort of realized something..."_

_ "And what's that?"_

_ "It's just that...you will be leaving. Someday. Won't you?"_

_ Sherlock hung his head, organizing his thoughts. He had come to New York a year earlier, but he had been all of Europe and Asia before that, making it an even thirty months since his supposed death at St. Bart's. Two and a half years since Moriarty. Two and a half years since the last time he spoke to his best friend. Almost three years without his true identity, without the people he cared most about in the world, and without an apology. But how could he apologize for what he'd done?_

_ The truth was, Sherlock Holmes had grown content with his new life. He was still a consulting detective even, in a way. As it were, Hahnie posed as the police's liaison to solving crimes, keeping Sherlock's – or rather, Samuel's – existence a secret and pretending to be the one giving them their information. Those tips saved lives, and the city Inspectors were usually willing to pay a decent amount if it meant they kept the credit. Solving crimes with Hahnie, to some extent, made him feel...normal? Well, no. Sherlock had never been normal, and never would be. But it made him feel at home again, and coming back to the apartment with Hahnie felt about as close to going home to Baker Street as anything could._

_ "That...is undetermined," he finally answered her, not realizing that he had been gripping his left forearm far too tightly, and that it was bruising._

_ "Don't tell me you've come all this way and beat all those people just to keep slumming around here with me." Hahnie sipped her tea, inspecting Sherlock's every move. With effort, he separated his hand from his arm. God, it was hard._

_ "You must understand...after all I've done, returning home will prove to be...difficult."_

_ "But, you're almost done, aren't you? With the list?"_

_ Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but he knew she would prod him until he did. "Two more. One in Los Angeles. One in London."_

_ "The sniper?" Sherlock nodded. "You know his name?"_

_ "No. Moriarty kept his information very well secluded."_

_ "But you know he's the one closest to John."_

_ "I've always known someone was keeping an eye on him. I just couldn't get close enough to find out who it was, lest either of them find out I'm still alive."_

_ "So, looks like we're heading to LA!" Hahnie decided, looking a little too excited. Sherlock almost chuckled._

_ "We have plenty of time for that. Better to save our money."_

_ Then Hahnie looked far too serious again, and Sherlock sighed before burying his gaze in his tea. She addressed him. "You have to go home. You can't let him think you're dead forever. I-" she turned away pointedly just as Sherlock looked up at her. "-I can't imagine how I'd feel if you'd never come back this time. No explanation, just...gone. I'd blame myself. Maybe even hate myself, eventually, you know?" Sherlock bit his lip. "Of course you know. Sorry...I ruined dinner."_

_ "No, you're right," Sherlock agreed._

_ "And anyway, he's your best friend."_

_ Sherlock winced at the title Hahnie attributed to John. Sure, it had been true, once. But..._

_ "I just don't know how to return. I've been away for so long, and...they're safe. They're all safe. Going back would just throw everything into a frenzy, and who's to say if I could save them again?"_

_ "Me. I say it. You're the most brilliant man in the world. If anyone can come back from the dead, it's you."_

_ Sherlock gazed at the young woman, his face riddled with a mixture of affection and pride. How had this girl weaved her way into his life, when he had been so determined to isolate himself from the rest of the world. She was able to open him up like a book and read straight into his heart, becoming the best friend he'd collected since...well, his best friend._

_ When they had finished their tea, they continued their conversation, eventually planning his upcoming journey to Los Angeles and figuring out how he'd be able to afford it._

_ "There's someone I know out there. A woman," he said, and Hahnie raised her eyebrow._

_ "Oh, a lady-friend?"_

_ Sherlock didn't waste time denying her implications. "She's in a similar situation to mine, and likely won't be too shocked to find me alive. Last I checked, she was a rather successful opera singer."_

_ "So, we've got a nice a place to stay? I love saving on hotels!"_

_ Sherlock bit his lip before asking. "You'll come with me, then?"_

_ Hahnie grinned. "When you like and where you like."_

_ The young girl informed Sherlock that she would be going to bed early, and asked him to refrain from any loud experiments while she was trying to sleep, their awful apartment only containing two rooms. He agreed, and began reading through the past few days' newspapers, scratching his forearm lightly from force of habit. After brushing her teeth in the bathroom and changing into her pyjamas, she walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing their cheeks together._

_ Sherlock rested a hand over one of hers, peacefully setting down the papers before him._

_ "Don't stay for my sake," she requested, and Sherlock twisted his neck to face her. She had such a sad smile sometimes._

_ "Don't try so hard to rid yourself of me just yet," he replied, attempting humour, but as Hahnie kissed his left forearm (as she always did when he seemed reliant upon abusing it) and went to bury herself under the covers, he knew that – in reality – the only sake he was staying for was his own._

* * *

><p>Lestrade was halfway through his morning coffee when he heard Sherlock stirring, and when he entered the living room, he found the former consulting detective sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. "What time is it?" Sherlock asked groggily.<p>

"Just after nine." Sherlock looked as though that was too late, an started to stand. "Hold on," Lestrade told him, heading to the kitchen. "I've made you some breakfast."

"I'm not hungry, thank you."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "It's some bloody toast with jam on it, it's hardly going to weigh you down. I have fruit, too, and if you hate all of that...well, then I'm making you pancakes. You're eating, that's all there is to it." He wasn't quite sure why he was treating Sherlock like a child – perhaps it was the confused stare he had every time Lestrade smiled at him, and the way he flinched every they were close enough to touch.

Sherlock looked guilty as he nodded, and Lestrade returned to the living room with the toast, placing a banana next to it.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, gesturing to his own.

"Tea, please."

When Lestrade returned with a cup of tea and some sugar, Sherlock had already finished his food. He placed the saucer onto the coffee table, giving Sherlock the benefit of the doubt so their hands wouldn't brush. "John mentioned your thing about touching. What's up with that?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but as he lifted the teacup in both of his hands, he said, "Thank you."

_"You're welcome," _Lestrade replied ironically, simultaneously astonished and appalled by Sherlock's manners. "Sorry about the lack of options...I'm not so grand at groceries, myself."

"You left your wife," Sherlock stated, and Lestrade wondered exactly how long it had taken him to figure that one out.

"Was it my bare ring-finger that gave it away?"

Sherlock gestured to the back door. "Garden."

"Oh, right," Lestrade mumbled. "Yeah, haven't planted anything since she moved away."

"You kept the house."

"Her new fellow had a bigger one."

Sherlock looked back at him. "I'm sorry. The kids?"

"Old. Both of them. Wasn't that big of a surprise, I gather."

"Right."

Lestrade gestured to the clothes he'd left on the coffee table while Sherlock was sleeping. "My son's. Might even be small enough to fit you." He wanted to cheer when Sherlock smiled, seemingly amused by the jab. This time Sherlock didn't say his thanks aloud, and Lestrade could tell that doing so took some effort. Sherlock brought his feet onto the couch as he drank his tea, concealing his left arm behind his knees as he grasped it with his other, cup-free hand. "You on the drugs again?" Lestrade asked, knowing exactly how unmannerly the enquiry sounded.

Sherlock, however, didn't seem too fazed by it. "No," he answered, simply. Lestrade had hoped he'd be offended, at least.

"So, why's your arm so beat up?"

"Cravings."

"Right. So, when was the last time you shot up?"

Sherlock was finally starting to look a little annoyed. Lestrade felt a bit too proud of himself, as though he were interrogating a prisoner and was finally getting a meaningful reaction of them. "You tell me," the man answered.

Lestrade had to remind himself to close him mouth. "You haven't in...Christ, that's _years_, Sherlock! Good for you. And you've been craving since...?"

"It shouldn't be difficult to guess. At least, that's when they became less bearable."

"They've been this bad for three years?" Lestrade marvelled.

Sherlock looked guilty. "John was...disappointed."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "That doesn't sound like him." Sherlock cocked his head. "What I mean to say is...he wouldn't be mad about you wanting to do that. I reckon he's mighty proud of you, as a matter of fact."

"Proud?"

"Yeah. Hell, I am! That's ruddy amazing, Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't looked all that impressed with himself, but did seem relieved by the discovery. Had he really thought John was upset at him for it?

"Now, what's this case you boys seem to be on at the moment? Do I need to call your brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft knows. I asked him to keep out of it, but...well..."

"I expect he'll dip his toes in, come out and save the day at some point," Lestrade gathered.

Sherlock frowned. "I had hoped to take care of this alone."

"Take care of what?" Sherlock shrugged, so Lestrade decided to go on blindly. "Criminal mastermind out on the loose, trying to kill you and all of your mates?" Sherlock's face told him he was far too close to being correct. "So, the usual?" Lestrade quipped. "You know," he continued, "I can get the Yard to help out."

"Definitely not. No one can know I've returned. I've taken to big of a risk coming _here,_ even."

"Oh, so you don't trust me?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock responded, his earnestly surprising Lestrade a bit. "But involving you...it places you into danger, Lestrade."

"Well, every now and then maybe I like a spot of danger. Ever thought of that?"

Sherlock bent his eyebrow towards Lestrade in a way that the Detective Inspector almost found comical. Then, he returned to his tea.

"Why'd you play dead in the first place, Sherlock?" Lestrade finally found himself asking, and Sherlock merely shrugged. "No, that's not good enough."

"I have no idea how to answer that question," Sherlock informed him, and Lestrade could see that glint of fear in his eyes.

"Mind if I wager a guess?" Sherlock rolled his eyes in a way that finally looked like himself. "It's something to do with John, obviously...he was in trouble, I bet. You had to go find it, get rid of it."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's as good an answer as any."

"But it doesn't explain the dead part. Even if it did, it wouldn't take care of the secrets part, either. What happened, Sherlock?"

"I really don't know how to explain it. There were – _subjects _- in danger, and my death was the one thing able to prevent that danger."

Then, Lestrade's mind cleared, and he understood. "You had to die to save him."

Sherlock nodded. "But, I was too proud to die. I had some mad idea that I could eliminate all of your snipers before they'd realize I was alive, and then I'd return. But I had no idea how...expansive...the list of dangers would be."

"How many left?"

"Just the one. Sebastian Moran. He should be going after John, as were his instructions, but...he's decided to focus on me, instead."

"Why?"

"Anger. Now that I'm alive, he won't stop until I'm dead. Moriarty was desperate for me to live in pain, but Moran isn't so...romantic. He just wants me gone."

"So, John is safe."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. But, he'll be safer once Moran is gone, obviously."

Lestrade took a deep breath, the mystery of Sherlock's disappearance finally starting to become clear. There was a new question, though: "What do you mean, _my _snipers?"

Sherlock's eyes widened. "What?"

"That's what you said: you had to eliminate all of _my _snipers...or..._ours_?" He sighed. "John wasn't the only one Moriarty was going to have killed, was he?" Sherlock seemed determined not to answer. "John, me...who else?"

Sherlock hung his head. "Mrs. Hudson."

"Ah. Yeah, of course." He wanted to laugh, but didn't. "Nice company to be in." Lestrade allowed himself a smile. "I am grateful, Sherlock. And...I'm glad you're back now. We'll take care of this, and then things can go back to normal." But Sherlock didn't seem thrilled by the idea. "Won't they?" Silence. "I'll let you change. John should be coming around soon."

As Lestrade went to his own room to prepare for the day, glad that it was a weekend, he thought about what Sherlock had done for him. The man had feigned death for three years just to keep him out of danger. He had never realized before that he must have meant as much to Sherlock as the younger man did to him. He had known Sherlock Holmes since he was in his mid-twenties, and had helped to ease him out of the world of drugs and into a world where he could make himself useful, consulting with Scotland Yard to save London one case at a time. But Sherlock was never personal, never sentimental. The one person Lestrade was certain he cared about was John, but he had never dared to think that there was anyone else. Mrs. Hudson wasn't too surprising, obviously, but...him? How had Lestrade managed to fight his way to top three?

When he went back to the living room, he half expected to find it empty, but instead Sherlock had made his way to the kitchen to start washing the dishes. "Those fit you all right, actually," he stated about his son's clothes, a simple pair of dark slacks and a blue button down shirt. "Sorry I didn't have a suit for you." Sherlock turned back and gave a small but appreciative smile. Lestrade walked up to the sink. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back. "I can do those later, you know-"

His sentence was ended when Sherlock dropped the tea saucer into the sink, where it shattered. The detective was bent over, grasping the edges of the counter and shivering.

"Oh...God, right...I'm sorry," Lestrade apologized swiftly as he backed away, creating distance between the two of them as Sherlock stopped the tap and tried to collect the broken glass.

"No..." Sherlock muttered, giving up on the glass after a moment. "I...I'm sorry. It's..." Sherlock turned himself around so that he was leaning backwards against the counter, facing Lestrade. "I don't understand it, either," he admitted – perhaps for the first time, Lestrade realized.

"Does it hurt? When people touch you?" Sherlock looked confused. "That's what John thought."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. "It's...it's not pain, per say, but...it's the same feeling I get when I keep myself from scratching my arm." As he said it, he instinctively gripped the extremity, as if he had been reminded of his need to engage it.

"What feeling is that?"

"It's just...it's as though something terrible is about to happen. Something just...breaks." Sherlock's eyes bulged as he realized what he was saying. "I should not burden you with this."

"No...burden me. Please. I want you to," Lestrade told him honestly. If Sherlock hadn't talked to anyone else about it, then he needed to get it out somewhere.

"I should be dead, you know," Sherlock stated suddenly. "I'm meant to be."

"I'm glad you aren't."

"Perhaps I'm..." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Perhaps I'm _not._" He opened his eyes again to look at Lestrade. "I just mean: if I'm alive, that means Moriarty's will was not met. My being alive...it's puts everyone in danger. It's not the way it was supposed to go."

"And the touching means that you're alive, right?" Lestrade offered, and Sherlock opened his mouth wordlessly, as though that were an option he hadn't considered.

Before he could say anything, though, there was a loud and intense rapping on the front door. They both raced towards it, and when Lestrade pulled it open, John was there, looking mortified.

"I went to see Mary before I came...and..." he was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, as if he'd run to Lestrade's home. "She's not there. I tried to call, and...I got this..." He held out his mobile, revealing the last text he'd received:

**Welcome back, Mr. Holmes. SM**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: ** Sorry about the briefness of this chapter, but I hope you enjoy it! Read and review, lovelies!

* * *

><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Six<strong>

Sherlock was out the door before Lestrade could even react to the text.

"You know where she is, then?" John asked, following him. "Good. Let's go."

"No!" Sherlock hissed, turning on his heel. "You two stay here. I'll figure this out on my own."

"Sherlock, this is my _wife _we're talking about!"

"Fiance."

John bit his lip. "Right. Yeah, she is, and I'm not going to sit around here and wait while this Moran character does..." John brought a hand to his forehead. "Oh, God...what could he be doing to her?" Countless scenarios ran through John's mind, and his heartbeat still hadn't slowed since receiving the text in the first place.

"Don't worry, he's not the...he's not that sort. I promise, John," Sherlock added, looking as honest as the doctor had ever seen him. "This is _my _fault. Allow _me_ to fix this."

"_Do _you know where he's keeping her?" Lestrade asked as he bent down to put on his sneakers. As Sherlock pondered his answer, Lestrade collected his shoes as well and handed them to him. Sherlock sighed as he took them, and for a second John thought he might laugh: Sherlock would rather run around London barefoot than have to pause his mind to tie a pair of shoelaces. Sadly, there was nothing else that was humourous about the situation they were in.

Sherlock couldn't look either of the other two men in the eye. "No. Not yet."

"Then we'll work together," John decided. "We'll go out and find her."

"Fine." Sherlock started toward the sidewalk.

Lestrade stopped him. "Mate, I have a car. It'll be a bit quicker that way, I reckon."

But Sherlock didn't like the idea. "You two drive. I need to take a detour."

"To _where?_" Lestrade looked like he was getting a headache.

"He's tried this already," John told Lestrade, then addressed Sherlock. "You're not getting away from me again."

"I'll meet you on the corner at Baker Street in a half-hour. Until then, go to Bart's, and check the surrounding buildings. Abandoned, preferably."

"And where are you going?"

Sherlock was already on his way, his voice floating back to the others on the wind. "I've got to make a house call."

As John watched Sherlock race around the corner, Lestrade placed a hand on his back, directing him to his vehicle. John got in, his heartbeat finally slowing as he sat down. Lestrade buckled himself into the driver's seat. "Here you go, mate," he said, reaching into his glove compartment and pulling out a package of tissues. John gave him a bewildered look, but Lestrade turned the rear-view mirror towards him.

He hadn't realized he was crying.

John gladly took one of the tissues as Lestrade replaced the mirror and started driving towards St. Bart's Hospital.

"I should probably be following him, seeing where he'd headed," Lestrade said. John shrugged in passive agreement. "Should we call Mycroft?"

John hadn't actually considered the idea. If it _were _the right thing to do, would Sherlock have come up with already? And if he had, would he be too proud to follow through?

"I just...I want to trust him."

"I know you do. So do I," Lestrade said, "But...be sure about it. Are we calling or not?"

John sighed. "Not yet."

"'Kay."

The hospital was only a five minute drive from where they were, and the first half of the ride was spent in silence. Unable to cope with his own thoughts of what might be happening to Mary in his absence, John decided to try and make conversation:

"Was he able to get any sleep last night?"

"Went out the moment he layed down. Didn't even wanna wake him this morning." Lestrade chuckled. "He even ate something – on a case, no less. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever seen him eat anything before."

John tried to look amused, but Lestrade could tell he was faking it.

"Amazing how easy it is to drop back into old times, isn't it?"

"For us, anyway."

"Yeah...John, when you were at Uni, did you ever take any psych classes?"

John looked at Lestrade, whose gaze was levelled on the street ahead of them.

"A few. Yes. Why?"

Lestrade looked like he didn't want to answer, but did after a few seconds. "What do you think's with the whole claustrophobia thing?"

Then John tilted his head, Lestrade's words sparking something. "Actually, claustrophobia hadn't even...I hadn't even thought of it."

"Is it possible he might have gotten it from something?"

John frowned. "It takes an extremely high level of stress, and usually an event of great significance for a person to develop a disorder or phobia."

"Well, he pretended to be dead for three years. That's got to be stressful."

"Yeah." John cleared his throat, stopping himself from speaking.

"What's up?" John looked out the window. "John, what do you think the 'event' was?"

"He may have mentioned have done some...less than moral activities. I can't be sure, though."

"By less than moral, do you mean...?"

"Not drugs, he didn't-"

"-I know," Lestrade interrupted. "Well, I wasn't sure, but if you believe him, then...well, I'll buy it, if you think it's true."

"It couldn't be recent, if he is. Long term...no way of telling." John pondered. "But I do believe him. I want to believe him. Still, drugs would explain some of the paranoia."

"What was the other thing?"

"What other thing?"

"The thing you were going to say."

John kept his gaze out the window. Only a few blocks left. "I wasn't going to say anything-"

"Come on. What do you think he did?"

John sighed. "Even if he did, and I'm not sure he did, the event would lend itself more to a disorder than a phobia..."

"You think?"

"Yeah." As he confessed his suspicion, John was glad that Lestrade had grown into one of his most trusted friends over the past years. "Greg...I think he might have killed someone."

Lestrade didn't say a word until they were parked in the lot outside of St. Bart's. They each got out of the car, and as the doors locked, the Detective Inspector finally responded: "See, whereas I thought that was the most obvious thing about him."

* * *

><p><em> "Sherlock Holmes."<em>

_ "Yes?" Sherlock answered, lifting his head from the newspaper fort he'd been creating for the past three hours, searching for clues to spiral him deeper into his current case. Hahnie's nose was practically pressed up against her cellular phone's tiny screen, reading aloud from some webpage she had found while he was in his consultant-cave._

_ "Sherlock Holmes, 1984 to 2010. Born in Windsor, England. Fraudulent detective, claimed to be under the influence of various hallucinogenic drugs, leading him to the viscious murder of Richard Brook, a children's television performer. Holmes claimed that Brook was a criminal mastermind with the ability to break into countless British command stations at will, when really it was He who held the key code with the power to unlock them all. Committed suicide by jumping from St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London, leaving behind fiance, John Watson."_

_ "I should never have told you my real name."_

_ "I would have figured it out eventually. You told me John's."_

_ Sherlock scoffed. "Newspaper writers getting bored across the pond, I see?"_

_ Hahnie looked up. "That was your Wikipedia page."_

_ "Well then, it _must _be accurate."_

_ "Please." The girl rolled her eyes in unision with Sherlock. "A piece of code that can open any Government building? That's a little too science-fiction-y, even for me."_

_ "Then clearly you're unfamilar with the British Government."_

_ She rolled her tongue around in her mouth as she considered his response. Then, she seemed to discard it, changing her tone. "We heard about you, you know. Over here, in the States. Well, not so much you as that code. It was a big deal among...well, nerds and stuff." Sherlock didn't think her story required any response, so he neglected to give one. "Then we heard about you. Some fake British detective jumps off a roof. Nerds all thought you did it to save the code from getting into the wrong hands."_

_ Sherlock bent his head back into his newspapers. "You didn't believe the hype, though?"_

_ Hahnie snorted, and shook her head. "I never believe the hype," she said in a low growl, and Sherlock was reminded of a lengthy lesson on 'hipsters' – who were not, as he'd previously believed, elderly jazz fans - she had given him once. "I was working at a Newstand at the time, that's how I got everybody's opinions. I must have seen your picture five-hundred times a day for a week, but you didn't look even a bit familiar when I met you."_

_ "That was a long time ago, Hahnie." She didn't say anything. Why, oh _why _did he suddenly feel the need to fill in the silence? "And I've changed my appearance. Besides, why would an American pay any attention to the face of a dead Englishman?"_

_ "No, I'm good with faces. Really good. As good as I am with directions."_

_ "You're terrible with directions."_

_ "Fair enough," she agreed. "But I never go the wrong way, do I?"_

_ No, she didn't. Hahnie, while absolutely useless at street names and following maps, had the uncanny ability to find her way to any kind of building one was looking for. Whether it was groceries, a crack-den, the cheapest motel...Hahnie had a sixth sense of how to get there. It was as though she recognized places, even if she knew she'd never been in them. It was a deja vu that impressed him to no end, and it was one of the reasons he allowed Hahnie to join him on cases._

_ "I don't think your looks changed. Not that much, anyway. Can I be bold?"_

_ "I think you already are."_

_ "Obviously, _you _changed. You had to. I just think...you changed more than just from time, you know? You're like a different person."_

_ Sherlock tried to steady his gaze so as to not roll his eyes at his companion. "What an incredible deduction," he remarked dryly._

_ Hahnie made a 'hoomph' sound. "What I should also say is this: in all the photos of you I can find, you're not alone. I think you look different when he's not with you."_

_ "Who?"_

_ "Why, your '_fiance', _of course."_

_ Sherlock did not laugh. "He was my flatmate."_

_ "If he was just your 'flatmate', then why have I heard so much about him?"_

_ "I required an alternative fake identity. You caught me off guard. I could just as easily have selected anyone else I know."_

_ "But you didn't! You picked your rumoured romance."_

_ "Two men live together. People talk. I assure you-" Sherlock levelled his eyes upon Hahnie, "-we were entirely unrecreational."_

_ "Well, obviously." Hahnie got up and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open as she pulled her make-up bag from the mirror cabinet. "That John Watson, he's a looker. Could do way better than some boney, sunless, snarky detective." Sherlock pursed his lips, only a little offended. "I'm joking, handsome," Hahnie assured him, although she seemed to take too sarcastic a pleasure in the word 'handsome', "I couldn't imagine you being _'recreational' _with anyone." She feigned a shiver._

_ "Where are you off to, then?"_

_ "Geez!" Hahnie's face was half-covered in oozy foundation as she leaned out of the doorway into the kitchenette, "We've barely been together three months - you're smothering me!"_

_ Sherlock didn't realize he was chuckling until after he had done it. Hahnie finished up whatever abuse she was doing to her face and then returned to the main area to put on her sneakers._

_ "Today I'm getting a real-people job," she announced, proudly. "Like...a bartender or temp or something."_

_ "Shorter skirt for bartender, higher necklane for temp."_

_ "Thanks for the tip, Holmesy."_

_ "Do _not _start calling me that."_

_ Hahnie smirked evilly. Sherlock groaned. Before she left, she walked up behind him and ran a hand through his overgrown ginger hair. He pulsated, still not accustomed to allowing her touch. "I was right," she said, graciously retrieving her hand, "Red is definitely a good colour for you."_

_ "I may not be here when you return," Sherlock told her as she opened the door._

_ "Should I wait up?"_

_ "Should I even bother asking you not to?"_

_ Hahnie grinned as she shook her head. She had half-closed the door when she sauntered back in. "He's someone to you."_

_ "Yes. My flatmate."_

_ "No." Hahnie swallowed. "I mean: he's really..._someone. _An important someone." Sherlock tried to lose himself in the next paper. He could barely hear her as she finally made her exit. "Maybe even the most important someone..."_


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: ** Sorry for the delay, I've been crazy busy! This chapter has been driving me bonkers, but I finally finished it. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Also, I'm working on a new one-shot from Anthony-verse. Something a little on the angsty side. Well, two fics, in fact. I've missed my Anthony-verse, and it's been nice to get back into that mindset.

By the way, has anyone out there read The Beekeeper's Apprentice? I've been reading about it, and I'm thinking about buying it. Perhaps it's just because I keep comparing Mary Russel to Hahnie in my head. Thoughts?

* * *

><p><strong>Untouched, Chapter Seven<strong>

_As soon as Sherlock reached the door, he knew that something was very wrong. Hahnie always locked it when she came home. Always. It was their rule, the thing that guaranteed she was safe. But, as Sherlock turned his key, he found the door to have been left open. He was tentative about rushing in at first, worried that he might find an enemy waiting with a pointed gun inside, but he knew that Hahnie was in danger, and her safety was of more circumstance than his own._

_ It wasn't until the next morning he considered the fact that, in that moment, he had placed her physical safety above John's emotional safety, not considering the possibility of himself not returning to his blogger. He had put her first, and she didn't even know his real name. Of course, he'd already been away from John for over a year. Perhaps he was just...used to it._

_ He took hold of the Swiss Army knife in his pocket at he threw the door open, entering the tiny apartment with as much focus as he could muster on an empty stomach. "Who's here? Where are you?" he was saying, but he stopped as soon as his eyes found the bed in the corner, and his pitiful looking roommate curled up on it._

_ She was leaning against the wall, her feet drawn up to her chest with the sheets bundled up around her. She was dressed in sweats and a shabby t-shirt, and her feet were bare. She looked freezing. Her face was bleak and white. She was in shock._

_ He considered calling the police as soon as he got a good look at her, but thought better of it. He would first try and figure out whatever had occurred himself, and see if it was something he could fix without involving the law. It was selfish, but too many questions would be a hinderence in both of their lives. Sherlock returned his weapon to his pocket and approached the bed. It wasn't until he sat down on the edge of it that Hahnie seemed to notice him. "Sam..." she mumbled, her voice untouched by whatever event had just occurred to her._

_ "What happened?" Sherlock demanded, despite trying to be gentle._

_ Hahnie simply shook her head, unwilling to supply him with an answer. She stared weakly at him, and he suddenly felt a powerful urge to reach out to her. Then he shivered, the thought of touch catching him off-guard, and he gripped his own arm, caressing that tiny place that begged to be violated by the insertion of a needle. He collected himself, and addressed the girl again:_

_ "Were you attacked?" he asked, needlessly. It was obvious that she had been. Her hair was a mess of knots and her wrists looked as though they had been bound. But her injuries appeared to be relatively menial compared to the trauma through which she had suffered. Oh yes, Sherlock knew exactly what had happened to her, and he knew exactly who had done it. "When did he leave?" he asked, and Hahnie took a deep breath, centering herself. Finally, she seemed to become aware of her current circumstances and surroundings and spoke:_

_ "What time is it?"_

_ "After ten."_

_ "He probably left around half-past six."_

_ "Have you been sitting here ever since?"_

_ Hahnie frowned. "I got dressed first," she told him, and Sherlock winced._

_ He didn't know what to say. What could he say? He couldn't change what had happened, and words couldn't heal her. All he knew was that he felt angry. No...not just angry. Furious. He tried to conceal the emotion, but Hahnie was intuitive, and she shrunk away from him. "Have you eaten?" he asked, trying to sound calm. Inside, he was planning all the different ways he intended to torture John Clay before brutally murdering the man. Hahnie shook her head. "Come on," he requested, standing and moving to the cupboard for something to eat. There wasn't much, and he couldn't cook, so he decided to make use of a can of lentils that had been there since they moved in. As he placed the uncanned food into the microwave, he saw that Hahnie had made her way to the table in the middle of the room, and was sitting with her legs drawn up and crossed on one of the chairs._

_ He shot her a fake smile that he hoped would be comforting, but gave up on the gesture as the wall where she had been leaning caught his eye. Blood._

_ "Sit sideways," he ordered, forgetting to be gentle. Hahnie looked confused, but shifted so that he back was no longer pressed up against the chair. Sherlock rushed into the bathroom and collected a wet face cloth and some cream to seal the wounds he expected to find on Hahnie's back. He came back into the main room. "Lift your shirt," he commanded, crouching down behind her._

_ Hahnie stiffened. "No..." she whispered, and Sherlock didnt understand. He asked again, and she started shaking her head frantically. "No...no please...I can't."_

_ "Hahnie," Sherlock sighed, "You know I'm not-"_

_ "I know, just..." she had started sobbing. "I'm scared."_

_ "Of what?" Sherlock stood and walked around her, pulling up a chair for himself. "I'm trying to help you. It could get infected."_

_ Hahnie closed her eyes tightly. "I was being safe! It was daytime, I was on the sidewalk. There were people everywhere! He had a gun on my back - I couldn't scream. He brought me here." Her eyes widened. "He knows where we live."_

_ Sherlock listened, trying to piece together what little she could say to him. As she spoke, the anger inside of him grew, but he couldn't let it show. She was already frightened enough. "We'll move," he said, after she had stopped speaking. "But first, let's get you cleaned up."_

_ "You're not you right now," she said. Sherlock's eyebrow twitched._

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "You're being Him, aren't you?"_

_ "Who?"_

_ "I know when you're...yourself. But you're not, this isn't what you're like. You're trying to act like your doctor friend. What was his name?"_

_ "John."_

_ Sherlock hadn't realized it before, but he couldn't disagree. John was better in these situations. He knew how to take care of people, whether they wanted him to or not._

_ "Tell me your name."_

_ "Hahnie-"_

_ "-Your _real _name. Please," she begged._

_ Sherlock shook his head. "Let me see your back." Hahnie was still reluctant, but eventually she nodded. Sherlock returned to his place behind her seat as she slowly drew the back her t-shirt up over her shoulders, crossing her arms uncomfortably in front of her. The , injuries were small but many. Clay's nails had dug their way into her skin. Sherlock wanted to vomit. The wounds were not terribly deep, but she was in danger of infection, so he started to raise the damp cloth in his hand to her skin._

_ He froze. In all the commotion, he hadn't considered the fact that in order to help her, he would be forced to touch her. The wounds were directly between her shoulder-blades, and there was no way she could reach them herself._

_ "I'll go to the hospital," she said reluctantly, noticing his pause. It wasn't a good idea. They didn't have the money, and again, the questions. Hahnie knew as well as he did that the situation had to remain private. Alerting the police about Clay could lead them deeper into Sherlock's life, and doing so would reveal his identity. Hahnie didn't yet know why that was important, or that he was supposed to be dead, but somehow...somehow she understood._

_ Somehow, knowing next to nothing about his real life, Hahnie was the most supportive and unconditional friend he had in the world. Well, that knew he was alive, anyway._

_ "No,it's okay," he told her. "Unless you want to?"_

_ "No."_

_ So Sherlock held his breath, and he pressed the dampened cloth against Hahnie's bloody skin. And it hurt. At one point, his fingertips brushed against her back, and he winced, gasping in surprise at how much the touch felt like a burn, and the way his chest tightened with an emotion he could only designate as fear. But he pressed on, saving her from infection, and perhaps even comforting her in some way. If he couldn't tell her his name, he would at least refrain from refusing to touch her - to help her. When he was finished washing her cuts, he covered them with the medical cream, and it was already starting to hurt a little less to make contact with her. Finally, it was done._

_ "I'll get you a clean shirt," he said, and collected one from her backpack. He turned away to let her change._

_ "Thanks," she said as soon as she was covered. Sherlock turned around._

_ "Are you hungry?" he asked._

_ "You never heated the food," she reminded him, and he looked over at the open microwave, where he had left the bowl unheated. He looked back at Hahnie, who seemed mildly amused. Finally, a face that looked like her own. He closed the microwave door and pushed a few buttons, heating their dinner. "You eat. I'm not hungry."_

_ "Neither am I."_

_ "Fine." It was an odd agreement: neither wanted to eat, both both of them would._

_ "I'm sorry," he told the girl sitting before him. The incredible, strong girl._

_ "There was nothing you could have done."_

_ "Why didn't you call me? I could have come back sooner, maybe even caught him on my way in."_

_ Hahnie hung her head. "I was afraid that...that you'd be angry."_

_ Sherlock frowned, and then the fire inside of him returned. "I'll be rid of him. Soon. As soon as possible." The microwave beeped. "He'll never hurt you again, I swear."_

_ Hahnie didn't say anything, but she didn't seem pleased by any of Sherlock's words. He wanted to make things better. He wanted to be better, to stop saying the wrong things, to stop making things worse. He made an offer:_

_ "You should tell the police."_

_ "Tell them what? I was...attacked...by my roommate's arch nemesis? What about when they start asking how you know him, who you are, where you're from?"_

_ "I can figure that out on my own. They don't need to find _me._"_

_ "So you're leaving? That's the solution? You know the police will never catch him on their own,and telling them about him will only lead back to you." She sighed. "And...I don't know why that's a bad thing. I don't know what you're running away from, but...I trust you. I know you want to deal with this on your own."_

_ "Are you sure?"_

_ "Yes. Just...remember that you're not a killer."_

_ Sherlock couldn't respond to that, not in a way that would make Hahnie content. "I'm sorry that I've...that he hurt you. I understand that this sort of thing can be incredibly devastating."_

_ "It's not the first time. I can handle it."_

_ "Well, if you need-"_

_ "-There you go again, acting like someone else. I just want you to be...you. Whoever that is. Are you ever going to tell me who you are, and why it's so important that nobody find out?"_

_ Sherlock wanted so badly to tell her, to confide in her. It looked like she needed to know as much as he needed to tell someone. But he didn't. He focused on serving the lentils. "Okay." He sat down opposite his roommate, looking for a way to change the subject. "But first...we need to worry about moving."_

_ Hahnie sighed. "Right. Okay." She wouldn't find out tonight._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock!" Molly shrieked as she entered her kitchen, the former detective standing cautiously before her. She steadied herself against the fridge, her heart racing. Sherlock was frowning.<p>

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm...it's..." Molly blinked. "I heard that you had..."

"Another lie."

"So...he didn't kill you?"

That had been Sherlock's final deception before leaving London three years earlier, paying off a member of his Homeless Network to give Molly the news that one of Moriarty's snipers had discovered him. In the tale, Sherlock had convinced the sniper to kill him in exchange for John's life. He was never entirely sure why he had done it...perhaps the thought of making a dishonest woman out of Molly Hooper was simply too much for him. Either way, she had believed him to be dead, just like everyone else.

But first she had helped him. Oh yes, Molly had been critical in Sherlock's greatest magic trick, the disappearing act that convinced London of his fraudulent suicide. She was in on that much, but he had eased her out of it. He died a second time for her.

"Why?" she breathed.

Sherlock sighed. "That is of no circumstance. Molly...you have every right imaginable to despise me. However," he continued, his voice growing weaker with each word, "I find myself here to ask you for one more favour."

Molly, to her credit, didn't falter. "Of course."

Sometimes Sherlock wondered how he had ever disregarded her. Ever.

"But," she added, frowning, "This time you have to tell me exactly what is going on."

"Fair enough."

Molly stepped deeper into the kitchen, finally able to balance on her own two feet. She passed Sherlock on her way to the kettle. He flinched as their arms brushed. "Right..." she mumbled. "Still?"

Sherlock rubbed the spot where they had brushed. "Still."

"With everyone?" Molly asked, biting her lip before finishing: "Or just me?"

"Everyone," Sherlock answered her. It was true enough.

Molly made them both tea. Sherlock marvelled at her steadiness - shouldn't she be more shaken? He had, after all, just come back from the dead. But then, had anybody seemed truly uneasy about Sherlock's return? Mostly, they all seemed to just accept it. What was it about Sherlock Holmes that made the idea of returning from the grave so reasonable?

"Does John know?" she asked as she scooped the sugar into his cup.

"Yes. As does Lestrade. And Mycroft."

Molly nodded, seeming relatively pleased by that information. "And me." She placed Sherlock's cuppa on the counter, not daring to hand it to him herself. His aversion to human touch had started immediately after The Fall, and Molly had been at the brunt of his first attack, the burn of her hands giving him one of the most painful shocks of his entire life. Before he had left London, they had spoken about the new condition, but never solved the root of it. Molly had suggested that it had something to do with Sherlock's newfound cocaine cravings. She never got to find out if she was right.

Sherlock took the cuppa. It was the least he could do.

"Well? What do you need?" Molly was direct, for which Sherlock was grateful.

"I had a suitcase brought here, along with the news of my death. It is important. I'd like it back."

"What's in it?"

"You never opened it?"

"Didn't seem right to."

Sherlock frowned, but he had to answer her. That was the deal. "My gun."

Molly gaped at him. "You can't expect me to believe you came all the way to my flat for a gun!" She rolled her eyes. Sherlock was a bit surprised. This Molly was new to him. Before she had been absolutely accomodating, and unabashedly fond of him. Now she was hard. Blunt. Still Molly, but with him, more severe.

"I left it here for your sake, in case you needed it."

"What would I do with it, even if I _had_ opened the suitcase? You know I've got rubbish co-ordination."

Sherlock found himself dangerous close to chuckling. He concealed his amusement. "I thought it might make you more apt to believe I was dead."

"Why was that so important? Don't you trust me?"

Sherlock wanted to convince her that he did - of course he did. He always had. But instead he ignored the question, any articulate answer escaping him. "Do you still have it?"

It was Molly's turn to remain silent. She placed down her mug and left the room for a few minutes. When she returned, she was holding the suitcase Sherlock had left with her well over two years earlier. She placed it on the floor. Kneeling, Sherlock went about opening the case and retrieving his old revolver. It felt foreign in his hands. He'd become accustomed to more close-contact weapons.

"Thank you," he said, closing the suitcase. He stood, and started to turn, awkwardly attempting to leave.

"That was it?" Molly interrupted his exit.

"Yes."

"That was hardly a favour."

"The favour was already done - you held onto this for me."

"Sherlock Holmes," Molly directed at his back, for he was still trying to escape. "You could have gotten any gun from anywhere. There's absolutely nothing special about that one, is there?"

"What does that matter? I needed a gun. This one is as good as any other."

He could hear Molly smirking without having to turn and look. "You sent me that gun because you were worried about me. You came back for it because I don't need it any more. And that's not the only reason you came here."

"What is?" Why did he care? Was it because she seemed to know something about him that he hadn't discovered yet?

"You dropped by to say hello." Molly didn't try to stop him again as he left, but she did yell out to him as he shut the door to the flat: "Come back soon!"

* * *

><p><em> She was drunk.<em>

_ Sherlock hadn't seen Hahnie drunk before, not really. She had come home with a six-pack of beer one night, claiming that they were celebrating some silly American holiday, and she only made it through a can and a half before the two were so caught up in conversation that they forgot to finish their drinks. But tonight, she was completely inebriated. Dangerously so._

_ He'd been looking all night. They had moved into a shabby motel room, and Hahnie had gotten dressed up, claiming to be meeting an old friend. Less than a week had passed since she'd been raped by John Clay, and Sherlock had taken the afternoon off from finding him in order to take on a case for the local police._

_ That had been Hahnie's idea: she knew that he was some sort of detective, but he couldn't help the New York department himself, not without them asking questions. So, she had become the bridge. She was the one claiming to find the tips they were giving the police, and they were paid good money for it - under the table, of course. It was quite a practical arrangement, and it gave his mind something to do when he wasn't working on Moriarty's criminal network. Which wasn't often, but they needed the money, and sometimes...sometimes, Sherlock needed the reprieve._

_ And Hahnie _seemed _okay. He should have known better. She claimed that it wasn't the first time something so terrible had happened to her, and he should have known it wasn't true. But she was lucid. Calm. Too calm. Why had he not seen past the facade, and into the grief she was feeling? How was it that _this girl _had fooled the great Sherlock Holmes?_

_ Maybe he had just seen what he wanted to see. He didn't want her to be in pain, so he decided to forget she'd been hurt. Or maybe it was because he was so focused on detroying John Clay for what he had done to her._

_ Either way, she was not taking it as well as he'd thought._

_ They were outside, and Hahnie was stumbling through a series of alleys. Sherlock tried speaking to her, hoping he could coax her back to the motel, but she refused to follow him. "I'll come home in the morning," she said, stepping into a puddle and getting mud on the bottom of the flower dress she was wearing. Her hair was a mess, and when it swung to side he could still see the marks on her back where Clay had pierced her skin._

_ "It's not safe to be out this late. Come home."_

_ "It's home now, is it?" Hahnie wouldn't look at him. Sherlock couldn't blame her. Why did he care so much? "I guess that means we've shacked up!"_

_ "I'm sorry for what happened to you...I truly, truly am. But you need to think about protecting yourself now. This was very...this was a very immature thing to do." No. No, he'd said the wrong thing. He didn't know what to tell her that might be...good. What would John say? "Let me take you back to the apartment."_

_ "Funny, I had hoped to be going home with a stranger tonight! Had no idea it might be you."_

_ "I'm not a stranger."_

_ "Right. _Samuel._"_ _Hahnie rolled her eyes. "Or should I say John? Or...God, who knows. I don't know who you are. I have no idea."_

_ They had made out of the alleys and into a park. Sherlock hoped she would stay on the main path._

_ "You must understand that I...it is unsafe for me to tell you that."_

_ "Then go away!"_

_ He should have. Why had he stayed in the first place? Why was he chasing someone that clearly wanted nothing to do with him?_

_ "If you want me to."_

_ "No!" Hahnie stopped. She turned. Her eyes were black from runny make-up. "No..." she reconsidered. "Yeah. Leave me alone. Whoever you are!"_

_ Then she was running. He should have let her run._

_ His heart raced. Clay might be out there, in the bushes, waiting to catch her again. Trying to find his way back to Sherlock._

_ He should have let her go, let her live her life._

_ Wouldn't she be safer without him?_

_ Sherlock chased her._

_ She had tripped over some loose stones. It was dark, and the only light came from the moon and stars above. Sherlock knelt down next to the sobbing girl._

_ "What happened to you was wrong."_

_ "Yeah? No shit, Sh-" Hahnie fell into a fit of coughs before speaking again. "I didn't...I don't know how he caught me." Sherlock wanted to tell her there was no way to rationalize what had happened to her. Clay was a wretched man. He would kill him for her. "But I need...I don't want to be alone. I'm scared of him. I'm scared of everything."_

_ Sherlock had that urge again, the one where he reached out and grabbed her shoulder. Why couldn't he just comfort her? Why did he want to? "This - what you're doing now - this is not the right way of coping. We'll find him, and we'll bring him to justice."_

_ "I won't kill him."_

_ "I will."_

_ "Please..." Hahnie looked so desperate. "Don't. Don't play God." Sherlock knew Hahnie wasn't religious. She was drunk. She was being over-dramatic._

_ But then, everything since The Fall seemed like some sort of television melodrama. Nothing seemed real anymore._

_ Except for her._

_ Hahnie was real. She was human. She was flawed. She was good._

_ And she trusted him._

_ And she saw right through him. All the time._

_ And she was hurting._

_ And she _counted_._

_ Sherlock took her hand. It hurt. He drew her up to her feet._

_ "What's your name?" she begged. Would she even remember if he told her, in this state?_

_ "Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I was a consulting detective in London. I killed myself to save those I cared about."_

_ "But you're alive."_

_ "I'm not meant to be."_

_ "It didn't work?"_

_ "I never tried. I pretended."_

_ "You...pretended to die?"_

_ "Yes. It was selfish. I am selfish, and I'm alive when I'm supposed to be dead. No one can know, not until I've destroyed a network still under the orders of the man who did this to me.."_

_ "Why?"_

_ "If I'm known to be alive, my friends-" his voice broke as he said the word, "-will be killed."_

_ "Is Clay one of the...bad guys?"_

_ Sherlock nodded. "Do you understand?"_

_ Hahnie closed her eyes tightly, and she stumbled a bit. "Remind me tomorrow."_

_ He didn't want to agree. "Of course. How much have you had to drink?"_

_ "Too much."_

_ "Can you walk home?"_

_ "Yes." Her grasp on his hand tightened. He'd forgotten he was holding hers. It started to buzz with something that wasn't quite pain. It was...was it relief?_

_ She buried her face into his chest. He flinched, because that did hurt, and it filled him with an overwhelming sense of what he could only describe as terror - but he did not push her away. "I'm sorry..." she was mumbling into him, wetting his clothes with her tears. He did not wrap his arms around her, but she had kept a hold of his hand, and for some reason, that still didn't hurt._

_ Perhaps, as she sobbed, the bad feeling inside of him was lessened as well. Just a bit._

_ Just enough._


End file.
